


No Not Literally, But Metaphorically

by raedbard



Category: RPF Morrissey
Genre: Masturbation, Other, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-04
Updated: 2008-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-06 23:12:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedbard/pseuds/raedbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some dreams lately made into rhymes, and the afternoon's work now done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Not Literally, But Metaphorically

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle VI, to the prompt 'strangeways'.

There is an empty room at the top of the house. And you lie there quiet, with a notebook open over your chest and the still-wet ink pressing like fingertips: some dreams lately made into rhymes, and the afternoon's work now done. There is a shirt, a pair of jeans with holes in the knees, three socks from three different pairs, discarded by the bed: prosaic notes; not yours. The shirt doesn't have his smell anymore, and none of them have any significance or any worthwhile place. There is dust gathering in the creases. But you can't bear to move them, or even touch them. The are the last pieces of flotsam left to you which aren't disjointed words in a notebook and the photograph glued into the notebook's final pages. And you can't look at that, and there have been enough songs, for now.

You close your eyes and think in similes, until you realise this is quite wrong for him, quite abominable to talk about him as if he is a painting or a poem with obvious beauty to be shared with the world. You know mostly that is because you are jealous of every glance, perversely envious of every stroke of a hand on his arm to which you are not privy but whether because you want to chronicle or because you want to participate you are still not sure. You remember his body in this bed and the remembering doesn't help, because it was awkward and impossible, and exquisite in the way that a sharp pain can be exquisite. But you remember watching him afterwards too, and making notes in your mind, and starting to want again once the possibility of satiety was gone, and the curve of his spine and the square of his hips, and feeling quite at home.

There is a light breeze coming through the window and, absurdly, you think it brings into the room the scent of his aftershave. Or something like it. Or wishful thinking. You take the notebook from your chest and close it and place it beside the bed. There are indeed traces of the ink on your chest: odd words upside down and broken in half, fragments of fragments. You run your fingers over them tenderly and then you close your eyes again, because you hate this part: not a pretty sight at all, oh no, not at all.

But it doesn't seem to matter.

You feel it as though he was still here. Though the hands are yours now it doesn't stop you flinching from the sound of the zip on your jeans or your hiss of breath at the pull of the coarse material on your skin. It's a warm afternoon, a sunny day, and your hand is warm and the breeze is cool and that lessens the strangeness of your own flesh against itself, even though the calluses on your fingers identify them beyond doubt; coarse and ugly, and so unlike his. You lay your thumbs down on the curves of your hipbones, wing-like and delicate, remembering the occasional seconds he would pass there, a tourist on his way somewhere more important, and how the short hair at his temple would tickle you and make you squirm, stupid, embarrassed, pushed out of what had been a perfect series of moments. You remember that now and blush, a little. You remember.

His lips were always cool and he liked kissing more than you ever will, though your mouth was always swollen too by the end. He would kiss you and you would lie still or squirm, and feel yourself turn marble-cold and strange and wondering just where it went wrong. With your fingers in the razor-short hair at the back of his head, wondering why; with your chest pounding against the kisses, wondering if you dare to move your head, just a little, just to look the other way; with your thighs open around his back, demeaned and implored and _and and and ..._

You find pleasure difficult to accept, even from your own hand, but it bursts in you all the same, unrefusable and wicked, and always just the same. Hips making an arc and stomach stretched and if you squeeze your eyes even more tightly shut you can feel a breath of his body, the bite on your thigh that he liked to inflict, his hand stroking oh so gently, and his voice a whisper:

_oh I love you, oh I do, oh I love you, yes yes I do_.

And when you open your eyes you don't know whose voice it is, and there is still pile of discarded clothes, lying on the floor.


End file.
